In the Proper Fashion
by Talismanic
Summary: When Holmes fails to return home on New Year's Eve, Watson decides to celebrate with young inspector Hopkins instead.  Cue Holmes' untimely return, and some New Year's angst.  Slash.  Holmes/Watson, implied Hopkins/Watson.  Happy New Year, guys!


The ring of the bell peeled through the house, and Watson's heart dropped. He had heard to rattle of a hansom cab stopping on the street outside, and he had hoped. Holmes had promised he would be back for the New Year. It was close to 10pm now, and there was still no sign. Holmes would not ring the door bell.

Instead the doctor heard Mrs Hudson greeting someone in the entrance way, footsteps on the stairs, a knock on the parlour door to which he falsified a smile and called "Come in." A moment later, Stanley Hopkins is in the room.

"Hopkins!" Watson stands, extending his hand. "What a nice surprise. Though I'm afraid Holmes isn't here, if it's a case you're chasing up. Mrs Hudson ought to have told you that."

"No, no." The young inspected extended his own hand, shaking the doctors. "I've come on personal matters, you see. Heard Holmes was away, and I didn't think there was any point to the two of us spending New Years alone, aye? I can go back, if you'd rather." He added as an afterthought, half turning back towards the door.

"Nonsense! Have a seat." Watson crossed to the mantle, where a bottle of port stood. "Won't you have a drink? Jolly good." Only the smallest trace of guilt was lingering in the doctor's mind. He had promised Holmes that they would spend the New Year alone in each others' company. And yet, Holmes was not here. He had let the doctor down. What harm was there in having a drink with Hopkins, then? It would be nice to have a familiar face around to see in the New Year - if not the one he wanted.

Midnight grew gradually closer, and Holmes still did not show up. Watson was not expecting it any longer, but still he could not help a glance at the clock every so often. Every so oftens that grew less and less infrequent, until eventually it was forgotten and the doctor's mind was full only with the idea of enjoying his night with Hopkins.

In what seemed like very little time - perhaps because the doctor had finally allowed himself to enjoy the evening, or perhaps thanks to the copious amounts of port that had been drank - the time was shown as five minutes to midnight, and Hopkins was suddenly on his feet.

"Watson, my good man, stand up!"

"Why ever would I do that?"

"We must see in the New Year in the proper fashion." Hopkins insisted, extending a hand which Watson took as he stood up, smiling.

"And what is the proper fashion?"

"Why, isn't it obvious?" The young inspector stepped closer, what most would consider too close, and smiled. It dawned on Watson then what Hopkins might mean, it dawned on him too that it was entirely the wrong thing to do. He did not, however, move away.

"I suppose that it is." He grinned, and that seemed to be all the consent Stanley Hopkins needed. The young man closed what was left of the distance between them, cupped his hand around the back of Watson's neck, and pulled the doctor into a kiss that tasted of cigarette smoke and bitter alcohol.

Watson's lips were still clasped to Hopkins' when the chimes of the clock signified the New Year. Over the chimes neither of the men heard the click of the latch as the front door closed, or the sound of soft foot falls on the stairs. Neither of them noticed anything, in fact, until Hopkins opened his eyes with a sigh, pulled back, and saw a sullen looking Sherlock Holmes leaning against the door frame.

"Ah. Mr Holmes. I-"

"Just leave, Hopkins, and I shall not breathe a word of this to anyone."

"Thank you Mr Holmes. Thank you, and a happy new year."

With that Hopkins was through the door and gone, a look on his face that said he was very keen to get away from Baker Street as fast as possible, leaving Watson standing alone under Holmes' gaze.

"I- I didn't think that you would be back." The doctor was the first to speak, and with his own words seemed to break Holmes' resolve to remain silent.

"I promised that I would be."

"Yes, I know." Another stretch of silence, and then. "How much did you see?"

"Enough." Holmes stepped now away from the door frame, pouring himself a drink from the open decanter of port, his back to the rest of the room. Watson could not help but think that the detective was being far too calm about this. He had expected shouting and accusations, perhaps a blow from Holmes' fist. Part of him wanted it. He wanted to see that Holmes cared enough to be hurt by what Watson had done, and he wanted to be punished for it.

"I didn't mean for it to happen."

"But it did."

"Yes." The calmness was unnerving. Watson wished that Holmes would turn and show him his face, though he didn't see why he should. What right had he to be looked at by the man he had just betrayed?

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"Sherlock..?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"Turn around. Please."

Watson almost wished that he hadn't asked. Holmes turned to face the doctor, the empty glass clasped too tightly in his hand. He looked just as calm as when he had been standing in the door way. Only one thing was different, and it spoke of all the hurt in the world. Sherlock Holmes never cried.

"Happy new year, Watson."

And he was gone, bedroom door shut and locked behind him, leaving Watson alone in the middle of the room, tears in his own eyes as he wondered if there was a way to fix Sherlock Holmes' heart.


End file.
